Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 17

Lydia POV

“It’s been approved.”

I blinked.

Then sat up straighter.

“What?”

“Your proposal. Young master approved it.”

I stared at him.

“Already?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I opened the folder immediately.

At the top was my proposal.

Printed.

Reviewed.

And at the bottom of the final page, in sharp black ink, was a signature.

Dave Ashton.

Nothing extra.

No note.

No comment.

No good job.

No interesting idea.

No let’s discuss this further.

Just his signature.

Cold.

And somehow, I still smiled.

Because approved was approved.

I looked up at Bernard. “So… we’re doing it?”

“We are, ma’am.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

A real one.

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Small, but real.

my God.”

Bernard’s smile deepened slightly. “Would you like to begin planning today?”

“Immediately.”

And that was how my week disappeared.

Planning the event turned out to be the most alive I had felt since getting married.

Not because it was glamorous.

Because it wasn’t.

It was work.

Actual work.

Phone calls.

Emails.

Venue options.

School outreach.

Sponsor confirmations.

Book suppliers.

Guest logistics.

Table layouts.

Volunteer coordination.

Media coverage.

Bernard handled operational support like a silent miracle in a suit, while I buried myself in the structure of it all.

Every morning, I woke up with a task list.

Every afternoon, something else needed adjusting. 2

Every evening, I collapsed into bed mentally exhausted but weirdly satisfied.

I chose a clean, elegant theme for the event.

Nothing too loud.

Nothing too childish.

Just warm, thoughtful, intentional.

Books displayed beautifully.

Reading corners.

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Sponsor banners that didn’t look embarrassing.

Refreshments simple but polished..

Even the invitation list took me almost two hours because apparently, when rich people do charity, half the work is deciding which version of wealth should witness it.

And somehow, through all of it, I didn’t hear a word from Dave.

Not one.

No call.

No text.

No check–in.

Just silent approval and invisible funding.

Typical.

Still, I kept going.

Because for once, this wasn’t about him.

It was mine.

And I wanted it to be good.

No.

I wanted it to be excellent.

By the evening of the event, I was standing in front of my mirror doing my own makeup with the concentration of a woman trying not to emotionally black out.

Soft skin.

Defined lashes. 1

Gloss.

Simple.

Clean.

Pretty without looking like I was trying to audition for anybody’s approval.

I wore a fitted ivory midi dress with a light structured blazer over it.

Elegant.

Comfortable.

Me.

When I got downstairs, the venue section of the estate had already been transformed.

Warm lights.

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Elegant floral arrangements.

Stacks of books arranged like they actually mattered.

Branded donation points.

A media wall.

Tasteful seating.

Soft music floating through the air.

People were already arriving.

And for one suspended second, I just stood there and looked at it.

Because it was beautiful.

Not in the expensive way.

In the I built this from a thought in a café way.

And that mattered more.

“Ma’am?”

I turned.

Bernard stood a few steps behind me.

“It looks good,” he said.

I smiled before I could stop myself. “It does, right?”

“It does.”

That should have been enough warning.

Because life, in my experience, rarely lets you feel proud for too long before it comes to punch you in the throat.

I was still greeting guests and trying not to overthink the media table when the room shifted.

Not loudly.

Subtly.

That strange social shift that happens when someone important has entered and everyone decides to pretend they weren’t looking.

I turned toward the entrance.

And there he was.

Dave.

Tall.

Sharp.

Tailored black suit.

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The kind of face that looked expensive even when expressionless.

He walked in like he belonged everywhere automatically.

And because God clearly enjoys irony, he was beautiful enough to still be irritating about it.

My stomach did a small, deeply unnecessary thing.

Then I saw who was beside him.

Cyn.

Of course.

Of course Cyn was there.

Why would peace ever arrive alone when it could come carrying insult by the hand?

She was dressed like she had personally been styled for photographs.

Sleek dress.

Perfect hair.

That polished, effortless confidence of a woman who had never once doubted her place in a room.

And the worst part?

She didn’t walk behind him.

She walked with him.

Like habit.

I stood still for one second too long.

Then forced myself to move again.

Professional.

Poised.

Unbothered.

At least externally.

They reached where I stood.

Dave’s gaze landed on me briefly.

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st enough to edge.

Near the books.

Cyn smiled and settled herself beside him with practiced ease.

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The flash went off anyway.

Something in my chest dropped quietly.

Just that cold, familiar feeling of being present and still somehow displaced.

I smiled through the rest of the evening because what else was there to do? 1

I thanked guests.

Spoke to school representatives.

Directed the volunteers.

Adjusted logistics.

Nodded through conversations I barely heard.

And all the while, a part of me kept waiting for Dave to notice.

To say something.

To correct something.

To do literally anything that suggested he understood what was happening right in front of him.

He never did.

Or maybe he did.

And just didn’t care.

That possibility sat worse.

By the time the last of the guests had left and the event had finally begun to empty out, my heels were hurting, my smile had died three hours ago, and all I wanted was to disappear.

I was helping one of the media assistants gather press copies near the side table when I saw it.

A preview of the image package for morning press circulation.

I looked down casually.

Then stopped.

There it was.

The main event photo.

Front and center.

Dave.

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Cyn.

And not me.

Not even partially.

Not even in the corner.

I stared at the screen.

Maybe I had stepped away too quickly.

Maybe there were other photos.

Maybe

“There are more in the folder,” the assistant said kindly, not realizing she was actively stepping on my emotional

trachea.

I nodded once.

“Right.”

I did not look at the rest.

Because suddenly, I didn’t need to.

I already knew.

The image that would go out tomorrow.

The image people would see.

The image attached to the event I built from scratch.

Would not have me in it.

I looked up slowly across the room.

Dave was near the exit.

Cyn beside him.

Still.

Always beside him.

And then, as if the universe wanted to make absolutely sure I got the message, he left. 1

Without saying goodbye.

Without one word.

Just walked out.

And took the center of my night with him.

I stood there for a long moment after he was gone. 1

The room was quieter now.

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Half–cleared.

he flowers still fresh.

The books still beautiful.

The event still objectively successful.

And yet, all I could feel was that old ache crawling back up my spine.

That old, humiliating familiarity.

Of doing the work.

And watching someone else get chosen.

Again. 2

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